Cycles
by Victoria Quynn
Summary: A follow-on to "Winter Roses"


Cycles

(A follow-on to "Winter Roses")

Crane McFadden stared at his plate. His mind a jumble of scenes from yesterday, the fork in his hand occasionally brought a small piece of something edible to his lips, only to be mindlessly chewed. The amount he had eaten this day might satiate a small bird; food was the last thing on his mind.

His gaze wandered from time to time to the empty chair to his right, at the head of the table at that end. Hannah would likely be home from the hospital by the end of the week, but probably not at table for a time after that. Bedrest was paramount given the surgery, and they would wait on her as footmen to a queen. But they would cross that bridge when the time came.

The din from three or four simultaneous conversations buzzed about him, although more somber this night than normal. Out of one ear Crane heard bits of talk about ranch work, school, football, the upcoming week. He looked up and listened intently for a moment or more when oldest brother Adam's conversation turned to Hannah and how she was doing. The positive news brought a fleeting smile to his countenance before his lips returned to their pursed state. Otherwise, his plate held his concentration, or rather, his focus on nothing in particular.

It took a couple of seconds for him to realize the din had quieted. Adam addressed him. Crane looked up. "Huh?"

The eldest McFadden brother repeated, "What do you think?"

Crane put his fork down. A small intake of breath preceded his quiet reply. "Of what?"

Six pairs of eyes upon him, he averted his gaze to his plate before looking again at Adam, who spoke in a gentle tone. "Of needing to put the sick calf down."

Crane breathed audibly once more, his mind still the jumble, unable to find that thread of business in his brain. Shaking his head, he shrugged. Rising, he mumbled, "I don't know," and exited the kitchen.

Stunned, his brothers watched him leave. Daniel started to rise, only to be stilled by Adam's hand on his shoulder. The eighteen-year-old implored with his eyes, followed by a barely heard, "Adam?"

"Leave him be, Daniel."

~~00oo00~~

Crane stood on the back porch staring at the just risen Hunter's Moon. Having forgotten his jacket on the way out, he folded his arms against his chest to ward off the evening chill. It was a perfect October evening – cool, crisp, and clear. Less need for flashlights this night for sure, but still a need for careful walking if one did not know the terrain. No worries here, though. He descended the steps and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The sounds of the night croaked around him, and to an untrained eye he was as if a spectral presence in his dark shirt and jeans moving effortlessly across the familiar lawn and road to the barn. Once inside he grabbed an old barn jacket someone had long ago left on a hook. Its mustiness could spur memories if one were in a mood to recall them in an olfactory sense, and he was not, but it was warm.

Taking a lantern down from its perch, he rummaged around on the same shelf for matches. Finding the matchbox empty, he set the lantern down and opened a side door just enough to let in a stream of moonlight. He took a step outside and looked up. The inky rural sky was a blaze of activity. He outlined the Big Dipper, following it to Polaris, the North Star, in the Little Dipper. The bears, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, of which the two dippers were part, twinkled ever so bright, just as the bears there in Carbon County and nearby slowed down and searched for winter quarters to hibernate. He smiled wryly at the analogy. Life went on in all its cycles for all animals, human and otherwise, even when one wished it could stop and spare some. If only … His eyes welled up, but he blinked back the tears, and none fell.

Shivering, he returned to the barn. The sounds of a hungry calf caught his attention. Ah, the sick one Adam had asked about. Crane had completely forgotten about it. Guthrie should have fed it before dinner. But, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, there on the hay in front of the enclosure housing the calf was the bottle, almost full. His youngest brother must have dropped it in the excitement of Adam's arrival home from the hospital. He picked up the bottle, unclasped the gate to the stall, and entered, reclining on a hay bale against the wall. The calf did not have much fight in its weakened state, and Crane easily pulled it close and inserted the nipple in its mouth.

Once calf and bottle latched, he rested his chin on the baby's head. What would he do? They could not send a sickened cow to market, but if it did not expire on its own, they would have to feed it all winter. Adam sought the answer from him. To Guthrie and Ford, it was an easy sentimental and heartfelt choice. To Adam and Crane, more an economic one. They had experimented on a small scale with fall calving this year, but it was risky at best and could be managed, but at what cost? Hannah's medical bills would soon arrive to strain their already tight and sometimes overdrawn budget. And he had just paid the first vet bill for this little guy. His mind beginning to swim with details he did not feel the need to address right now, Crane freed a hand and wiped a suddenly sweaty brow, and cleared his mind. He pulled the calf closer in to himself and leaned back. Holding the bottle steady, he listened to and felt the calf suck at it, its struggle for life playing out right there in his arms.

They could and might have to play God with this one, but what of other lives for which they could do nothing but mourn? Again, his eyes moistened, and he pulled the calf ever closer.

~~00oo00~~

With the house now quiet and the farm journal he read by the kitchen light not holding his attention, Adam sighed. Sleep called, but he wanted to wait up for Crane. The last week or so was a blur – Hannah's announcing her pregnancy, two months along; his entering, preparing for, and racing in the Gold Rush race; the miscarriage and time at hospital with Hannah. Thinking of his wife, his breath caught. He started to breathe audibly but stopped, deeming it too loud for his slumbering brothers in the next room. Regulating his breathing, he stilled his mind. Yawning and stretching mightily, he offered a prayer for his family, that they would each mourn the loss of the baby in his or her own way and be able to move on. Yes, it might be a cliché, but the sun would rise tomorrow and they would go about their usual routine, now with saddened hearts, but it would get better.

The family emergency having happened on a Saturday and with a day to recover, Daniel, Evan, Ford, and Guthrie would be on their way to school in the morning, with a stop in the afternoon by the hospital to see Hannah. That would get them through their day. He, Adam, would help with chores in the early morning before heading off to visit Hannah until dinnertime. Brian and Crane would ably fill in for him and do whatever chores the younger boys could not get to before dinner and homework time. Ever mindful of his family, but especially now, he had seen his brothers to bed, holding each in a close hug before they hit the pillow. Not the usual bedtime routine, perhaps, but … Well, this night each seemed to crave it.

And despite his quiet admonition earlier to Daniel to leave Crane be when he went off alone, Adam rose wearily, grabbed a jacket and lantern, and headed out the back door. The full moon now high in the sky illuminated the Circle Bar 7 almost to a gloaming, and instinct told Adam to start at the barn. Inside, he lifted the lantern high and found both his brother and the sick calf asleep in the bovine baby's stall, Crane's upper body resting on the animal. Smiling at the sight, Adam's eyes moistened. This thoughtful and sensitive brother with the gut feelings and worries had saved his wife's life. After all, if Crane had not felt compelled to return to the house … Adam could not stand the thought. He had hugged Crane with all the gratitude he could muster in the emergency waiting room at the hospital yesterday, and here that brother was now, asleep in a stall with a calf. The sight made Adam chuckle to himself but also wonder: Was this Crane's answer to the question Adam had posed earlier? Whether or not it was, perhaps they would have to think twice about it. Could they take inspiration from their youngest brothers who wanted the calf spared? Sleepy on his feet, he shook his head to keep awake and tabled the thought for another time.

Leaning in, Adam lightly ruffled his brother's hair. "Crane?"

Crane stirred. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he moaned, fighting the pull from sleep.

Adam tried again, his tone quiet. "Come on. You'll be more comfortable in your own bed."

"O-kay." Crane lifted his head and shook it. Finally aware of his surroundings, he opened his eyes and closed them just as quickly from the brightness of the lantern. Adjusting, he sat up and blinked, yawned, and focused on Adam.

The elder brother smiled. "Well, I'd tell you it's time to hit the hay, but it looks like you already have."

Crane rolled his eyes and chuckled.

"Come on, let's get you untangled from this little guy."

Together, the brothers managed to take the calf's weight off Crane without disturbing the animal's slumber. Crane moved to stand. "Great. My legs are asleep."

"No problem, bro. Come on." Adam took Crane's weight against his side and helped steady him for a minute as the pins and needles feeling brought circulation back to the younger McFadden's body. "Okay?"

Crane nodded and Adam let go. Still unsteady, Crane crashed into the stall fence with a thud. He held tight to the post. Adam grabbed him again around the waist.

"Thanks, Adam."

The simple sentiment caused Adam to choke up. "No, Crane. Thank you. I owe you, bro, more than I can ever pay up." Instinctively, he pulled his brother's head to his so their foreheads touched. Tears both had blinked back earlier flowed freely.

After a moment, they wiped their eyes. Regarding each other, they smiled. Adam playfully wrapped an arm around Crane's neck and steered them both back to the house.


End file.
